A teacher once told me I had potential, which was only another way of saying I had not yet given her what she wanted. When I failed to finish my sums, she rapped the desk and asked why I was always trailing behind. I explained that the numbers moved on the page. This was true in a sense. They did not remain where I needed them. They slipped from me like minnows. She pressed her lips so tightly they nearly vanished and said, βExcuses are cheap.β
Cheap?
Some words strike harder than stones.
I was so devastated that I could not possibly continue. My hand shook for the rest of the day. My appetite failed me at supper. That night, I stared out the attic window, moonlight cutting silver bars across the floorboards, and understood that I had been singled out by a merciless world which punishes the sensitive and rewards the crude.
After that, what choice did I have but to protect myself?
People say I never learned from my mistakes. That is a vicious oversimplification. I learned very quickly that mistakes are safest when laid at someone elseβs feet before they can be returned to yours.
If I broke a jug, it was because I had been startled.
If I missed the market, the road was muddy.
If I forgot an errand, no one had kindly reminded me.
If I hurt someoneβs feelings, it was they who had cornered me with unreasonable expectations.
If I borrowed a coin and did not repay it, I had been under extraordinary strain.
If I promised labour and did not arrive, then clearly something in my spirit had collapsed under the pressure.
And my spirit was always collapsing.
It is exhausting to be me.
